


The Chains of Memory

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Eating Disorders, Established Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Food Issues, H/D Food Fair 2018, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Has Minor PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Hogwarts, Protective Draco Malfoy, Toxic Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-05 02:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: Harry is growing sicker by the day and Draco wants to know why.





	The Chains of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> For [# 166](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit).
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** The title was inspired by a quote by Rasmenia Massoud; “The worst thing about shame is the way it chains you down. The way it holds your mind hostage and won’t let go…” Having fought a battle with food, both loving and hating it for the whole of my life, I was fascinated by this prompt. I also really hate Petunia Dursley, and this was an opportunity to dump some well-deserved shade on ‘Aunt Petunia’. Special thanks to B for the lightning fast beta, and to the H/D Food Fair mods for putting up with the vagaries of the flu and its unpredictable recovery time! I appreciate your seemingly endless patience, more than I can say.

The Chains of Shame

Draco Malfoy stood before the full length mirror hanging on the inside of his wardrobe door, pretending to admire the new clothes he’d carefully chosen. He looked good in the expensive slacks and jumper, with the crisp white shirt beneath. He didn’t need to look to know that. Pulling down his cuffs, he set them at the perfect angle between wrists and hands, his eyes instead on the figure reclining on their four poster across the room.

The lean man rested on the pile of decorative pillows, his hands stacked behind his dark head and his eyes closed. He was wearing a dark blue cable knit jumper that pulled across broad shoulders, and it appeared he’d attempted to do something with the black rat’s nest he called hair. Cowlicks had sprung back up in the twenty minutes since, because the mess even defied Sleakeasy’s. Levi jeans soft and faded with age caressed his long legs and narrow hips. They were worn pale at the knees and over the bulge resting just to the right of his fly. 

He’d changed so much in the fifteen years since they first met. Draco studied the wide shoulders and the slim, powerful torso. Very little remained of the scrawny eleven year old who’d refused Draco’s hand on that long ago day when they were ickle firsties; just the large green eyes and the lightening shaped scar that peeked from under his messy fringe. He’d traded in the round spectacles for more modern, rectangular shaped frames and scruff darkened his chin and cheeks. He certainly hadn’t had that at eleven. Long black lashes lay on pale cheeks, and all in all, the sight of him made Draco’s heart turn over hard. For some reason the horrid hair, scruffy chin and casual clothes worked even better on Potter than a close shave, smooth hair and formal robes. The only look that was better were Potter’s Auror robes, boots and leather gloves, but if Draco let himself go _there_ , they’d never get out of the bedroom.

The pale skin was of concern. Potter wasn’t pale by nature; his skin had a faintly tawny shade even in the middle of winter, which was what made his scar stand out so much. But not right now, and not for the last month. He looked pale, and drawn and his usual robust appetite had dropped off to almost nothing. Potter was never sick, ever. The prat didn’t even get colds. But suddenly the month before, he’d started to look ill. And Draco was worried.

“You look very nice,” Draco offered, a small lie. He wasn’t stretching the truth by much, even with the pale cheeks. 

“Thank you,” Harry replied mildly, not bothering to open his eyes. “It’s all in the clothes. I’ll alert my stylist.”

Draco smirked. “He’s aware. And you’re welcome.” He had selected Harry’s jumper and the stone-washed Levi’s; he wasn’t taking credit for the hair.

“We’re going to be late. Again.” 

“We aren’t,” Draco countered, glancing at the clock on their dark wooden dresser. They were. He steeled himself for Molly Weasley’s long suffering sigh as they came through the door into her kitchen. He studied Harry again, a slight frown touching between his brows. “I don’t get the impression you’re that keen on going, anyway.”

Harry dropped his hands from behind his head and sat up, his expression closing off in an intentionally blank expression Draco had seen before. That was Harry’s _don’t nag_ face. “I don’t know what you’re on about,” he said, sounding a bit put out. “No one does Sunday roast like Molly.” Draco arched a brow, and a ghost of Harry’s usual lopsided grin touched his face. “Okay, fine. Mimsy does a nice roast. I’m not impugning your mother’s elf.” 

“ _Impugning_ , is it? My, my Potter. There’s a million galleon word. At least I’m having an impact on your vocabulary.”

Harry scooted to the edge of the bed, his hands dragging through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Hermione informs me I’m definitely more articulate since you moved in. Are you done primping?”

Draco turned and gave him an annoyed look. “Are you done dodging my question? And stop dragging your fingers through that mop, it only makes it worse.”

Harry stopped mauling his hair and stood, avoiding Draco’s eyes. Which meant he knew perfectly well that he wasn’t answering. “I’m not dodging anything.”

Draco propped his hands on his hips. “Potter. Just floo Mother Weasley and tell her the truth.”

Harry picked up his trainers from the floor by the bed and sat heavily on the bench by the footboard. “And what truth is that?” He shoved his foot into the black shoe, yanking on the laces.

“That you aren’t feeling well, and you haven’t been for at least a week.” That was being generous.

Harry’s green eyes lifted to Draco, and annoyance flashed across his handsome face even as a light blush lit his cheekbones. “I’m fine. And Molly works too hard on these dinners for us to just not show up.”

“I didn’t suggest we _not show up_. I said to Floo…”

Harry pulled on the other shoe, tying it with jerky movements. He stood, walking stiffly for the bedroom door. “You coming?”

Draco watched him disappear into the hallway and sighed. “Bloody minded prat,” he muttered, but he followed.

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

The Burrow was more crowded than usual, and Draco remembered Arthur’s birthday was Tuesday when he saw Charlie and his boyfriend, Marius, sitting side by side on the loveseat. They didn’t come all the way from Romania every Sunday, and Draco heard Harry curse under his breath. The bloody gift, a set of six rubber ducks varying in size from a foot across to an inch in diameter including little perky tail, was still sitting on the table in their kitchen.

They’d arrived in the sitting room via floo rather than in the kitchen fireplace. He’d reasoned that if dinner had already started, this would make their entrance less conspicuous, and once the whole brood was packed in around the large table, there wasn’t room to cross from the hearth. He recognized his mistake when the entire Weasley family, including Bill, Fleur, Victoire and Louis looked up with boisterous greetings.

“Oi, you’re late,” Ron shouted. “Mum was making us wait for you.”

“Fuck,” Harry muttered, but he managed a slight smile for his old friend. 

“Honestly, Ronald. You won’t die.” Hermione, heavily pregnant with baby number two, pushed herself laboriously to her feet and handed Harry baby number one, who was reaching out to him and making ‘grabby hands’. He returned her delighted, gummy smile. 

“Hey, Rosie,” he said, kissing her cheek. “How’s my girl?”

“Unca daddy!” she crowed in delight, grabbing Harry’s cheeks and giving him a sticky kiss on the lips. She had something unrecognizable smeared down her chin and around her mouth

“Thanks so much.” Harry wiped the mess away with the back of his hand, grimacing. 

Draco rolled his eyes. He reached for his lovers hand and applied the handkerchief he kept in his pocket. “Please tell me that was a cookie.”

Ron laughed. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” He tweaked the baby’s nose, and she giggled. “Not bloody likely he’s your da, though, Miss Rosie. Look at that hair. That’s a cross between your mum and me if ever I saw it.” She did have a riot of ginger curls that was a bigger mess than Harry’s.

“She’s definitely a Weasley,” Draco murmured. “And her parentage isn’t under any doubt. Besides, last time I looked Uncle Harry is allergic to fan…”

“Let’s not teach her that word, Uncle Draco,” Hermione interrupted, giving him a stern look. “I already have enough to explain at daycare with her father.” Hermione grimaced, her hand pressing into her lower back. 

“Okay, there?” Harry reached out and touched her arm. She gave him a wan smile.

“Just ready to be done. If you’ll entertain her for a bit, you’ll be the best friend in existence.” 

Harry rubbed Rosie’s nose with his and she giggled. “That I can do.”

“Of course,” Draco drawled. “They’re intellectual equals.”

“Oi, what a git,” Ron muttered. Draco gave him an unrepentant smile. 

“Uncle Draco!” Five year old Victoire, blonde ringlets bouncing, ran to Draco and wrapped her willowy little arms around his legs, gazing up at him in adoration. She was a miniature of her mother, and she’d already told Draco she intended to marry him when she was of age. Draco had told Harry to remember he always had other options when Harry was tempted to be an arse.

“Tiens, mademoiselle.” Draco smiled down at her. They looked enough alike that she could be his child, with her white blonde hair and pale skin. Bill appeared behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t man-handle Uncle Draco, Vicki,” he scolded. “And aren’t you forgetting someone?”

She looked up at Harry. “Hello, Uncle Harry.” She sounded subdued, and Harry smiled at her. Draco fought a grin, knowing she considered his partner merely a road block on the way to her acquiring a Malfoy solitaire. 

“Not very enthusiastic, ma petite,” Fleur scolded. Harry shook his head. 

“She’s fine,” he said, smiling gently. 

“Yo, Ma!” Ron called out. “They’re here. Can we bloody eat?”

“Bloody eat!” Rose repeated, clear as day.

“Wonderful.” Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry laughed. Draco was grateful to hear it, but he couldn’t help but wonder how much of Harry’s good cheer was being put on for his family.

Molly stuck her head around the corner, grey streaked ginger hair fuzzy around her flushed face. “Oh, good, Harry and Draco are here. Come on, then. It’s all ready.”

“Thank Merlin. I’m starving.”

“So we’ve heard.” George elbowed his younger brother as he passed him on the way to the kitchen. “Over, and over, and over…” Ron jabbed him back, scowling.  
“Offer your wife your arm, you rude arse.”

“Rude arse,” Rose repeated. Hermione threw up her hands. 

“I give up.”

Draco saw Harry make a valiant effort to hold his grin as he hefted Rosie a little higher on his hip, slowly following Ron and Hermione into the kitchen. Draco watched him with Victoire hanging off his arm, and saw the dread grow in his eyes.

“Hello, love.” Molly pressed her cheek to Harry’s, one hand reaching out to squeeze Draco’s arm. She smelled of Sunday roast and muffins and biscuits, a scent Draco would always associate with his childhood at the Manor. Of course, there Narcissa was perfectly coiffed and an invisible army of house-elves did kitchen duty. Draco hadn’t even known where the room was until he was seven and stealing Christmas biscuits. 

“Hi, Molly.” Harry kissed her in return. She leaned away, her hand lifting to his cheek.

“You look peaky, Harry.” Her brow furled with concern. “Are you sick?”

“No, just tired. Work, you know.”

She frowned, propping her hands on her ample hips. “I do know. They’re like to kill Arthur, and he’s too old for this nonsense. I’m tempted to floo that Kingsley and give him a piece of my mind.”

“I’ve a plan,” George said, pulling out his seat as Harry gently lowered Rosie into a battered wooden high chair. “Everyone can quit their jobs at the Ministry and come to work at Wheezes. We can start a ginger mafia, with me as godfather. Well, mostly ginger.” He grinned at Harry. “You and your albino as exceptions.”

Draco flipped him the bird, and George winked at Harry.

“I’ll take a pass, thanks, George.” Neville sat next to Ginny. 

“Well, you have to stick with your plants, don’t you? Where else would I get my ingredients? So, see, by extension you’re already a part of the operation.”

Neville laughed. “I’ve always wanted to be part of organized crime.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ginny said as she sat beside him. “You’re not organized enough to be part of organized crime.”

“Well done, Ginevra.” Draco laughed as he sat next to Harry, bumping his knee gently under the table. Harry gave him a wan smile that looked more like a grimace.

Just like every Sunday for the last month, Draco watched, seeing what the others didn’t. Everything accelerated in Harry’s stomach when the smells of the meal hit him; the nausea, the dizziness, the cold sweat gleaming on his pale forehead. The symptoms had been fairly minor the first time, but now they were almost debilitating. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his mouth, trying to block off his nose without actually holding it.

“Harry?” Draco asked softly. Harry just shook his head and Draco considered manhandling him up from his seat and into the floo. There wasn’t time, as Molly and Arthur began setting the steaming dishes in the center of the massive kitchen table.

Harry abruptly covered his nose and mouth with one hand, and Draco frown, scanning the table quickly. He saw that a plate of green vegetables had been placed near his lover’s elbow. 

Draco had never been a huge fan of Brussel sprouts, but he’d never hated them, either. He just had no real opinion. They were Arthur’s favorite, and since this was his birthday dinner it made sense that there would be a plate. Because her husband loved them so much, Molly grew a bumper crop in her garden each spring and summer, then used a special stasis charm to keep them fresh throughout the fall and winter. She cooked hers with generous slices of bacon and creamy butter, and usually Draco would add a couple to his plate without thinking about it. But he could see from Harry’s expression that their aroma was doing him in. Rather than the size of chestnuts, Molly’s were three times the size. Draco recalled Harry telling him of a term Seamus Finnegan had used while they were at Hogwarts; he’d called Brussel sprouts ‘little green smelly cabbages of death’. Given most of Harry’s dorm mates ended up with gas after eating them, (well-bred Slytherin’s simply did _not_ fart, or at least admit it) it was a fairly apt description of the night spent in a room on the small side for six gassy teenagers. They’d laughed themselves silly half the night, Harry told him, even had competitions on who was the loudest, which Ron, unsurprisingly, usually won. 

But Draco could tell that this Sunday the sight of them was more than Harry could manage. As he watched in dismay, Harry shoved back his chair and lurched to his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered to a startled Molly, then pushed through the kitchen door and stumbled out into yard. 

“Draco?” Arthur said, standing as Draco pushed out of his chair and followed.

“Just a few moments,” he said quickly, following Harry out the door. He was a few feet from the door on his hands and knees in the grass. The muscles across his back arched, and moments later he was bringing up his breakfast with a tortured sound.

Draco had no idea how long Harry gagged but it felt like forever. Ron appeared, a concerned expression on his face and a glass of water in his hand. Draco took it gratefully as Harry was reduced to dry heaves. He placed his hand gently on his partner’s lower back.

“Here, love,” he murmured, handing him the glass of water. Harry took it gratefully, sipping and swirling it through his mouth, washing away the bitter taste of bile without swallowing. He spit it out and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sitting back on his heels before looking at Draco crouching beside him. “I think we’ll be passing on dinner today.”

Harry nodded wearily.

“It’s time to admit there’s something amiss, and to see a healer, don’t you agree?” Draco arched a brow.

He could see Harry wanted to argue, but given the evidence of the last few minutes it would be futile. He sighed and nodded raggedly. Instead of gloating, which Draco might have done in their past, he caressed Harry’s lower back then held out his hand for the glass. Harry handed it to him.

“I’ll make our excuses, then we’ll make the jump home.” 

Harry grimaced, but he knew flooing wouldn’t be any easier on his stomach than Apparating. 

“Harry?”

Hermione was standing in the doorway, her brow furrowed in concern, one hand pressed against the side of her belly. 

“Go to the Healer, Harry. Don’t give Draco a hard time, please. He’s told me how long this has been going on.”

“Listen to my wife, mate,” Ron added. “You’ve dropped a stone. And if the ferret is worried, you know you must look like death.”

“Thanks ever so.” Harry scowled, but eventually he nodded. He pushed to his feet, swaying dangerously. Draco caught him around his slender waist, holding him upright with a firm grip. 

“It’s not fair to use my friends against me,” Harry muttered. Draco snorted softly.

“Since when do I play fair?”

Harry started to say something else, but he was forced to silence when Draco held him tighter and they disappeared from the Burrow’s yard. Draco knew the jolt of Apparition would silence his arguments as nothing else could.

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

“I think this is a stupid waste of time.”

Draco sighed and looked over at Harry, who was seated next to him in the waiting room on another of the miserable, hard wooden chairs that lined the wall. He had come directly from work and was wearing Auror’s robes, so it was no hardship to look at him. There was just something about the dark red robes, fitted snug across Harry’s shoulders and nipped in at the waist, black trousers tucked into black boots, leather wand harness strapped to his sleeve. It ‘wound Draco’s crank’, as Weasley would so crudely put it. He wasn’t wrong. 

“So you’ve said,” Draco answered Harry’s comment. “Repeatedly.”

Harry’s left leg was bouncing like a Niffler on crack and fed up, Draco reached over and grabbed just above his knee, sinking long fingers into the meat of this thigh and digging in hard. 

“Ow,” Harry protested, smacking Draco’s hand away. “That hurt.”

“So, stop bouncing it.” Draco sighed. “Merlin, you’re like a ten year old on a sugar high with the bouncing and twitching.”

Harry exhaled through his nose. “I want to go home.”

“And I want a million galleons, but we don’t always get what we want.”

Harry slouched low in the chair, knees spread wide, an expression of disgust on his face. “Madam Pomfrey said there wasn’t anything wrong with me.”

“That’s not exactly accurate.” Draco looked back down at his book, trying to find his spot. After a moment he gave up and slammed it shut. He turned back to his disgruntled partner. “She said as far as she can tell, there’s no organic reason for your symptoms. She’s also a paediatric healer, and in case it has escaped your notice, you are no longer a child. Although, sometimes…”

Harry huffed. “Funny guy.”

“I do try.” Harry opened his mouth. “If you say “my patience” I will hex you.” Harry subsided into his slouch with a sour look. “What Madam Pomfrey said was that her tests didn’t show anything, but that she wasn’t really equipped to make that sort of diagnosis. Hence why we’re here.”

“But a mind healer?” Harry grimaced. “I’m not mental.”

“No one is saying you are,” Draco answered, silently begging Merlin for patience. They’d had this conversation repeatedly over the last week. “But there must be some reason that you’ve graduated from being ill at the sight and smell of Brussel sprouts to almost every side dish imaginable.”

“You’re exaggerating.” 

“Let’s see; that was you rushing to the loo after you put a bite of mushy peas in your mouth night before last at my mother’s, was it not?”

Harry frowned fiercely at the floor. “The texture was weird.”

“The texture _is_ weird. It’s mushy peas.”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitched as he fought a smile. 

“The point is,” Draco went on, his voice softer, “you’ve dropped weight, and you’re reduced to eating toast and weak tea. You’ve the diet of a geriatric grannie, and you can’t fuel that body, doing your job, on six hundred calories a day. And if you lose all of those lovely muscles, I shall leave you.” Harry rolled his eyes, knowing what a lie that was. Draco grabbed Harry’s hand, which was twitching on his thigh and squeezed until the green eyes he so loved turned to his. “I’m concerned, all right?”

Harry sighed. He linked their fingers, and his hand was cold, the palm damp. He really was nervous about this, Draco realized, when he was ordinarily unflappable about almost everything. Draco rubbed his thumb over the back of Harry’s index finger. “It will be all right,” he murmured, so softly he knew the receptionist across the room at a small desk couldn’t hear him. She’d watched them with avid curiosity at first, but they’d been there long enough now that she’d returned to whatever work she was doing. 

Harry shifted in the hard wooden chair for the hundredth time but didn’t speak again. 

After what felt like an interminable wait, the door across the room opened and an unremarkable man in jeans, a pale pink shirt and a gray cardigan entered. He looked to be between fifty and sixty, with a comfortable bit of padding around his middle. His gray hair brushed his collar, thin in front and thicker in the back, and he wore reading glasses that had slipped down his nose. But he had truly remarkable aquamarine colored eyes, and Draco couldn’t look away from them; they were beautiful, and full of sharp intelligence.

He gave them both a kind, fatherly smile then approached with his hand extended, his gaze settling on Harry.

“Mr Potter.” 

Harry glanced at Draco before pushing to his feet, taking the offered hand. 

“I’m Matthew Bernard.” 

“Harry Potter.” The moment Harry said it, his cheeks flushed a dark red. He looked so uncomfortable that Draco could do nothing but rescue him. He stood, offering his own hand. 

“Draco Malfoy. I’m Potter’s partner.” 

Bernard turned to him with an amused smile. “I seem to remember reading something about that in the _Prophet_.”

“You and everyone else in the wizarding world.” Draco’s tone was dry. Bernard chuckled, and it was a fatherly, reassuring sound. 

“It was rather a dust up.” He gestured toward the open door. “Shall we, Mr Potter?”

“Harry, please.” He glanced over at Draco. “I’d like for Draco to come in with me, if that’s okay.” If it wasn’t, he’d already told Draco he’d be heading for the door. It made Draco feel both important, and oddly protective.

Bernard shrugged easily. “It’s fine with me. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

Harry took a deep breath as if preparing for battle, then entered the next room. Bernard gestured Draco forward to follow him, then brought up the rear, closing the door quietly behind them. 

The space was a surprise. Draco had never been in a mind healer’s office before, but he certainly hadn’t imagined it would look like this. There was a large window along one wall, charmed to show the view of downtown London. It looked to be a lovely, clear day, the sky blue and a few fluffy white clouds drifting gently above Big Ben and Tower Bridge. The room was bright, walls a soft green, floors of pale oak with homey throw rugs scattered about. Two comfortable looking armchairs sat at an angle to a sofa upholstered in a soothing pattern of green leaves. One entire wall was taken up with bookcases stuffed to the brim with books and papers and knickknacks, and there wasn’t a desk in sight. It looked like a comfy sitting room in a flat populated by a bookish uni professor; all it was missing was a fat cat perched on the deep window ledge. 

Harry stood for a moment, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Have a seat, please.” Bernard gestured toward the sofa but Harry contrarily sat in one of the two arm chairs instead, and Draco shot him an amused smirk before seating himself in one corner of the sofa. Harry had told him that morning he wasn’t ‘lying on any shrink’s sofa, puking up his emotional guts’. Draco told him how colorfully unpleasant he found the description, and he knew his lover was thinking about the moment when a slight quirk hitched up the corner of Harry’s full lips.

Bernard seated himself in the second arm chair, crossing his legs casually.

“I hope it won’t embarrass you gentlemen if I tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you.”

“Why?” Harry’s voice was brusque, and Draco leveled him a quelling look. “Is it a pleasure, I mean? We’re just people.”

“Don’t be rude,” he murmured. Harry rolled his eyes and looked pointedly toward the window.

“No, it’s a fair question,” Bernard said amiably. “I imagine a lot of people are interested in your wartime exploits.”

“Not mine, surely,” Draco quipped. “There’s only one war hero in this partnership.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Bernard gave Draco a thoughtful look. “I imagine it took a certain amount of intestinal fortitude to share a house with Voldemort for much of the war.”

Draco’s stomach rolled at the unpleasant reminder. “It’s a big house.”

Bernard gave him a look that told Draco he knew he was deflecting, but he let it go with a slight smile.

“So, Harry,” Harry’s eyes, very green in the bright light, came back to Bernard, “I understand you’re having some issues with your appetite.”

Harry gave Draco a sour look, which he simply ignored with a challenging raised eyebrow. Harry had agreed to this appointment after his regular Healer, seen after Madam Pomfrey, listened to his symptoms, did a barrage of tests that took the better part of two days then gently told them it wasn’t anything physiological. Harry grumbled he’d see the mind Healer, but then refused to actually floo. Draco had done it for him, at his wit’s end when Harry had turned green at the sight of oatmeal. 

“Draco filled my assistant in on his observations, which are critical given his place in your life. But I also had a long talk with Healer Medville. He’s actually very concerned about you, and tells me you’ve lost a stone and a half in the last six weeks.” Harry looked down at his hands, his jaw working in his discomfort. Bernard didn’t seem a bit cowed. “For a healthy young man of your age, who passes a battery of tests with flying colors, we have to ask ourselves just what is going on.”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here,” Harry said through clenched teeth. Bernard smiled. 

“Fair enough,” he acknowledged. “If most people who see me knew what was troubling them, I wouldn’t be here, either. Do you think you could be comfortable just talking about it for a few minutes?”

Harry gave an aggrieved sigh, sounding like nothing so much as Draco had at five when his mother wouldn’t let him go out and fly with Greg. He hid a smile behind his hand.

“At first, it was just sprouts,” Harry answered after a long pause, shifting in his seat and staring at the floor.

“And what was it about the sprouts that bothered you?”

“The smell, maybe?” Harry grimaced. “Actually, I think it was just the sight of them. Seeing them on the table suddenly made my stomach turn.”

“They made your stomach turn, how?”

“I felt like I was going to vomit,” Harry snapped. “How do you think?”

“So even that first time, the sight of sprouts made you feel as if you might be sick?”

Harry stared at him for several seconds, and Bernard stared mildly back.

“No, actually,” Harry finally answered slowly. “That first time, it was more like they just made me… uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable, how?”

“Made my skin crawl. I was able to just not eat them for a while, but after a few weeks it wasn’t enough. I could smell them over everything else on the table, and I’d get clammy just thinking about Sunday dinners.”

This was news to Draco, and he sat up straighter. 

“Where do you have Sunday dinners?” Bernard asked, his head cocked to one side like an inquisitive squirrel.

“With my family,” Harry answered. Draco thought how pleased Mother Weasley would be to hear him say that. “Molly, she’s as close as if she were my mum, she and Arthur have treated me like I was one of theirs since I was eleven. She always does a roast or a turkey with all the trimmings. I used to look forward to those dinners all week. The noise and the company and the food.” Harry sounded wistful. “Now I try to think up any excuse I can, just so I don’t have to be there.”

“Do you think part of your problem might be the company?”

Harry’s eyes flashed, anger pinching his lips. “No.”

Bernard held up a hand, placating. “No offense meant. I’m sure your family are wonderful people.”

“They are,” Harry countered. “It isn’t the company; it’s the bloody food. First the sprouts, then the mushy peas, then the parsnips and the potatoes. Now it’s everything, short of toast, and even that is starting to turn my stomach. What the hell is wrong with me? Who doesn’t want to eat?”

People under pressure, for a start, Draco thought. He had a bit of experience with that one during his sixth year at Hogwarts. Stress did dreadful things to your stomach. So, what was Harry stressed about?

Bernard studied Harry, his expression thoughtful.

“I’m not sure what the problem is,” he said finally. “But I do have some things we can try, which might help sort it out. Can I tell you about them?”

Harry studied him for what felt like a very long time, then grudgingly, nodded.

__

hpdmhpdhmhpdm

Draco came out of the en-suite, flicking the lights off behind him. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the small lamp on Draco’s bedside cabinet.

Harry was lying on his side, a pillow scrunched up mercilessly beneath his head. It didn’t matter how expensive the pillows were; he always doubled them over and punched them into wrinkled submission. His hair was a spiky mess, indicative of him tearing his fingers through it and with his glasses on his bedside table, the pinched look around his eyes was obvious. 

Draco sighed silently. Harry was so beautiful, reclining in just his clinging black pants, his long, lean body on display. He was still a sight to see, but the lost weight was beginning to be painfully obvious around his ribcage and sharp hipbones. Draco crossed the room to the bed, climbing onto it behind him, scooting over until his front was pressed against his lover’s back. He kissed Harry’s pointed scapula, his hand drifting over his side and across his stomach. Harry grunted softly, leaning back into Draco’s chest. 

“You’re fretting again,” Draco murmured, his hand slipping up to brush the lines that were deepening on either side of his mouth. Harry nipped at his fingers and Draco pulled them back. “Ouch.”

“I don’t fret.” Harry pressed his head harder into his pillow.

“Merlin’s taint, you fret more than any woman I know.”

Harry’s rolled his head to squint up at Draco. “Your mother?”

“More than her, decidedly. She’s not a fretter. She’s someone who simply waits for the opportune moment to act, then hexes a person.” He preened. “Something I inherited.”

Harry snorted. “How about Andromeda? Or Molly? Or _Parkinson_?”

Draco sighed. “All right, you have me there. On a bad day Pansy can out-fret anyone breathing, including you. Congratulations.”

Harry closed his eyes again, scowling. “Shut up.”

“All right.” Draco let his hand drift back down to toy with the trail of black hair that ran from Harry’s navel to disappear beneath the elastic waist band lying low on his hips. “So if you aren’t manfully fretting, you are at the very least dwelling.”

Harry sighed and rolled to his back. Draco shifted to make space for him, then pressed against his side, his long fingers spread between Harry’s hipbones.

Harry looked up at him, his long black lashes throwing shadows over his cheekbones. “Do you think it will work?”

Draco mused thoughtfully, delicately tracing the dips and rises of the ridges across Harry’s torso. “I don’t know,” he answered finally. “But I think it’s worth a try, don’t you?” Harry didn’t answer, and Draco studied his face. “Should I remind you that you couldn’t force yourself to eat toast this evening?”

Harry looked away. “I know. I just hate the idea of someone sifting through my head.”

“Good heavens, I know.” Draco gave him a horrified look. “Think of the dust bunnies he might stir up.”

Harry scowled at him. “Fuck off.” The words were said without heat, and Draco shot him his middle finger before going back to twirling the black hair on Harry’s flat belly around his finger. Harry studied him. “You’ve used a Pensieve before?”

“Of course I have,” Draco answered, leaning his elbow on the pillows behind Harry’s head and resting his head in his palm. “There are years of memories stored in little bottles next to Mother’s Pensieve.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened. “Just stored?”

Draco lifted his shoulder in a casual shrug. “For now. Someday I’m sure I’ll let them go, pour them out. I’m just not…ready. Yet.” He smirked wryly. “I find occasionally being reminded of my youthful mistakes helps me to not repeat them.”

Harry caught Draco’s hand, wrapping it in his long fingers.

“We’ve all got a cabinet full of youthful mistakes, you know.”

Draco’s lips quirked. “Even the boy hero?”

“Especially the boy hero.”

Draco arched one of his artfully tweezed brows, several shades darker than his silvery hair. “And where exactly is this cabinet of yours?”

Harry laughed. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Oh, we’re well past that, aren’t we?” Draco ran his fingers teasingly over Harry’s full lower lip. “I’d never hold anything in it over your head.”

Harry’s eyes were shining with suppressed laughter. “Oh, sure. I believe that.” He ran his finger meaningfully over the slight crook to his once straight nose, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“I was angry that you’d put the paternal idiot in jail, as you well know. Back when I was still in his thrall and thought he was worth bothering with. Which, since I’m no longer fifteen, isn’t the case anymore. Besides,” he lifted his hand and followed the path Harry’s had taken, down the slender bridge of his nose, “I rather think this is an improvement.”

Harry sobered, his eyes dropping to the thin tracing of scars criss-crossing Draco’s lean torso. He touched one gently, rubbing it with his thumb. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same.”

“Oh, hush. They’re very manly.” He caught Harry’s hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing directly over the ‘I shall not tell lies’ scar etched into his flesh. “We all have our scars, love. As far as I’m concerned, mine are forgiven and forgotten.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Same here.”

“Good. So, tell me what exactly it is about Bernard’s proposed treatment that’s bothering you.”

Harry settled more comfortably into the bed and looked up at their ceiling, chewing on the corner of his lip. “I’m not thrilled about the idea of being hypnotized,” he said finally. “You know how I am about being out of control.”

“I do,” Draco agreed. “And I can’t say I’d like that too much myself. But you have a built in protective measure.” He caught Harry’s chin and looked into his eyes. “I will be there, and I will not allow him to cause you any hurt or embarrassment. You know that.”

Harry sighed softly, skirting his palm down the center of Draco’s chest, going far enough south that certain things below his belly button perked up. After a few moments, he nodded. “I know that. And it helps. I’m just afraid he’ll want to drudge up things from when I was a kid. Things better left where they are.”

That peaked Draco’s interest. No matter how he’d tried Harry would not discuss his childhood. Draco knew his lover was raised by Muggle relatives, at least until Hogwarts and he’d become an honorary Weasley, but any school age child who could read knew that. Draco had secrets of his own he didn’t want to share, things he’d done and seen during those seemingly endless months when he was sixteen and his every breath had been at the whim of a madman. He still occasionally had nightmares about what he’d been forced to do. 

Draco couldn’t imagine what Harry could possibly have to be secretive about that occurred between birth and his eleventh year. But he tightened up every time the subject was even flirted with, and Draco wouldn’t push; they’d weathered too many storms for him to risk upsetting Harry over something that didn’t really matter. Curiosity wouldn’t actually kill him, after all.

“You know,” he said slowly, his fingers gently tracing a line from the back of Harry’s hand, up his forearm, “that I won’t let him do anything I think would hurt you.” He meant that with every bit of his determination. He’d hex the Healer into next week if he tried. He just wasn’t sure Harry knew what might hurt him, or what might help. 

And now it was time for Draco to do something to take the distant, distracted look from Harry’s face. Any man who could have his hand just inches from Draco’s Malfoy’s cock and be so preoccupied he didn’t notice the tenting in his lover’s boxers needed a gentle wake up call.

Except – Draco registered that Harry no longer looked merely distracted. He looked a bit green around the edges. As the thought went through his mind, Harry muttered a choked apology and bolted out of their bed, racing for the ensuite door. Moments later the unmistakable sound of someone revisiting their dinner came through the open door, and Draco sat up slowly, staring at it in concern. 

Harry had eaten toast for dinner. Toast. And now he couldn’t keep that down. 

When the noise subsided, and Harry didn’t reappear, Draco got off of the bed and walked to the bathroom door. Harry was sitting on the floor with his head resting on the edge of the porcelain bowl, and his lean back was slick with sweat. Draco sighed internally but walked into the room, drawing a glass of water from the tap in the pedestal sink. He carried it to Harry, crouching beside him and laying his hand on his shoulder.

“Here, sweetheart.” 

Harry took the glass, rinsing his mouth. This was becoming an unpleasant habit, Draco thought as he took the glass back, then went and opened the glass shower door. He turned on the tap, holding his hand under the spray and waiting until it was just slightly too warm before stripping off his boxers. He tossed them into the hamper, then went to Harry, gently urging him to his feet.

“Come on. We need to get you rinsed off,” he murmured, slipping his arm around Harry’s waist. “I’m not allowing you anywhere near my Egyptian cotton sheets while you’re covered with slime.”

Harry managed a weak laugh. “It’s a good thing you never entertained being a Healer. Your bedside manner sucks.”

Draco slipped Harry’s boxers over his hipbones. They slid unimpeded to his feet; he’d lost enough weight they barely stayed up now as it was. “In the interests of accuracy, that would be shower side manner. And I’ll have you know I’d have been brilliant.”

Harry gave him a wan smirk, leaning weakly against the wall. “Of course you would.” 

Draco hid his concern behind bustling Harry into the shower, washing him with gentle hands, then drying him off with a thick, soft white towel. It wasn’t until he had Harry tucked into bed, his back to Draco’s front, that he spoke again. 

“Bernard will be able to help, you’ll see.”

Harry nodded weakly, but Draco was reassured when his breathing settled into a slow, steady rhythm as he fell asleep.

Draco didn’t join him for a long, long time.

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Harry sat in one of the chairs in Bernard’s office, popping his knuckles absently. Draco hated when he did that, but he crossed his long legs and settled deeper into the corner of the couch, determined to be as unobtrusive as possible. Harry still wanted him in on this session with the Mind Healer, and Draco felt it was his responsibility to ‘cover his back’ as Weasley put it in some incomprehensible Auror-speak, whatever that meant. He’d covered Harry’s back, but it didn’t have anything to do with Auror work and he doubted his partner would want them knowing anything quite that specific about their relationship, at any rate. Draco just barely stopped himself from twitching or Mordred’s sakes, popping his own knuckles. He felt a shuddering nervousness in his core and realized he was as tense about this whole bloody thing as Harry was.

“All right, Harry,” Bernard said, taking the chair across from Harry, his deep voice soothing. Harry shifted his shoulders. “Where shall we begin? What food was it that seemed to cause the initial problem?”

Draco saw pink spread across Harry’s high cheekbones. “I already told you. And it sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t, and specificity is important,” Bernard assured him.

Harry glanced over at Draco, seeking reassurance. Draco responded in the way he knew would best calm his lover’s nerves. He held up his hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart, indicating he thought the whole thing was a ‘little stupid’. It did precisely what he wanted it to do; Harry smirked at him before relaxing back into the chair. 

“Sprouts.”

Bernard did that curious spaniel thing with his head. “Alfalfa, or…”

“No, Brussels. Brussels sprouts.” Harry’s blush deepened.

“I can’t stand the things myself, so it certainly doesn’t sound stupid to me.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Harry said. “I don’t hate them. I did when I was a kid,” Draco perked up; that was news to him. “But I don’t anymore. And my Mum, well, my adopted Mum, she does this amazing thing with butter and bacon with the sprouts that is spectacular. Molly could make cardboard taste good, I swear.”

Bernard smiled gently. “My Mum can’t boil water, but my grandmother could make anything taste amazing. Except Brussels sprouts.”

Harry gave him a small, weak smile. 

“All right,” Bernard set the clipboard he’d been holding on a small table beside his chair. “You believe the Brussels sprouts are at the core of this issue you’re having?”

“The core? I don’t know.” For the first time, Harry sounded a bit peeved. “It started with that, but…” He gave Draco a helpless look, and Draco nodded at him in encouragement. “I’m pretty much down to toast, now.” Harry looked toward the charmed window. “And it’s rubbish. I like to eat. Dammit.”

Bernard smiled gently. “I understand how you feel. It would probably be good for me to be off my feed for a bit, but I wouldn’t like it.” He laced his fingers over the slight pudge straining the buttons of his button down, as if illustrating his point. “Now, do you remember what we discussed in the beginning? How this process works?” Harry nodded, his anxiety visibly increasing. Bernard waited at least a minute, his demeanor and expression kind, almost fatherly. Draco found himself wondering if he had different faces, different attitudes for different patients. It made sense, he supposed.

“Yeah, I remember.” Harry fidgeted. “I can’t say I’m comfortable with it.”

“You wouldn’t be the first patient who isn’t. But I took a Hippocratic oath, Harry, just like my Muggle counterparts. Are you familiar with it?” Harry paused, then shook his head. “It’s quite long, but it reads in part; ‘I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know.’

Harry went very still, his gaze on Bernard’s direct but somehow guarded at the same time. “That’s…I wish everyone would take an oath like that.”

“I imagine you do. Particularly the press, yes?”

Harry didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

“I just want you to know that I took my oath very seriously. And that I doubt Mr. Malfoy would take kindly to my doing anything to violate your trust.”

“Truer words…” Draco murmured. Bernard nodded.

“Just so. So, shall we begin?”

Harry straightened in the chair, his hands gripping the arms so tightly his knuckles were white, but he nodded. 

Bernard took a dark wood wand from his sleeve, then waved it towards his book cases. A set of double cabinet doors creaked open at the center, and a silver Pensieve lifted from a shelf and floated serenely to hover between them, rotating slowly, the motion vaguely hynotic.

“Now, if you would close your eyes.” Bernard’s voice was soothing once again. “You certainly don’t have to, but most of my patients find the spells more successful if they’re able to relax, close their eyes, and remember that my only goal is to relieve their symptoms.”

Harry nodded, but he was stiff and fidgeting and Draco frowned. He’d done some reading about this treatment after Bernard had first discussed it with them, and he’d been afraid Harry was a lousy test subject. Relaxation wasn’t exactly his forte, and it was necessary for success.

Bernard looked between Harry and Draco. 

 

“Harry, would it ease your concerns if Mr. Malfoy sat beside you during this process?”

Harry’s eyes shot open and he looked, wide-eyed, at Draco.

“I’ll do anything you want, you know that,” Draco promised.

Harry also knew that if he was sitting beside him, Draco would be more likely to see the memories floating on the surface of the Pensieve. He wouldn’t be entering them, necessarily, but it would be impossible for him to remain completely ignorant of their content. Harry looked at him for so long Draco thought he was going to refuse, but then he reached out an unsteady hand.

Bernard waved his wand and an identical armchair appeared next to Harry’s. Draco moved into it, taking the offered hand. It was cold, Harry’s palm damp, and a faint tremor ran through it. Draco gripped it tight between both of his. 

“It’s all right,” he murmured. Harry swallowed, looking back to Bernard. His fingers tightened almost painfully around Draco’s hand.

“Now, if you could close your eyes, allow your body to relax, your spine to shape to the back of the chair, your head pressed into the padding.”

Harry did all of the things Bernard suggested. The chair Draco sat in was identical, and it seemed to embrace him from all sides, holding each of his body’s tense zones in levels of comfort. Yet the core of steal Draco had always sensed in his lover was vibrating, pulled tight. He could feel the reflection of that through his fingers. This went well beyond mere nerves.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Draco murmured. “Perhaps another day?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I’m here, and I can’t go on like this. I just want it over.”

“All right, then.” Draco subsided into silence, but he couldn’t have released Harry’s hand had he tried, it was gripped so tightly. 

Bernard rose from his chair, coming to stand by Harry almost silently. 

“Try to let go of all of your worries,” he said, his voice soothing, melodious. “Trust your partner,” Harry’s fingers tightened, and Draco winced but didn’t pull away. “Trust me, trust that both Draco and I are creating a safe place for you to let go of your cares and concerns. Open your mind.” 

Draco fought a smile. It sounded so very Trelawney. Even Harry’s lips twitched. 

“I’m going to attempt the hypnosis sequence now,” Bernard whispered, placing the tip of his wand against Harry’s temple. “Relax and try to let it happen.”

Harry stiffened and Draco ran his thumb across the back of his hand, leaned close and pressed his forehead against the side of Harry’s head. “Relax, you dolt,” he murmured on a breath of air. “You need to be able to eat, and I’d like to fuck again sometime in this century.”

Harry snorted but Draco felt most of the tension leave his shoulders. 

“Placidum Quiesco,” Bernard whispered. “Apertus mentus. Confiscus sum.” 

He repeated the words in a slow, seductive tone, over and over. Slowly, Harry’s body went more and more limp, and after a few minutes he was even more boneless than when he was sound asleep. 

“All right,” Bernard said finally, “I want you to let your mind drift back, Harry. Back to when you were small, to the first time you remember tasting Brussels sprouts.”

Harry flinched, but a strand of memory connected itself from his forehead to the end of Bernard’s wand. The Healer let it stretch until it separated from Harry’s head, then dropped it gently on the silvery surface of the liquid in the Pensieve. Draco glanced over, then went still, his eyes riveted to the image that appeared. It was of a baby, a beautiful green eyed baby with messy black hair and an angry, jagged scar marring the pale skin of his forehead, green eyes wide and brimmed with tears. And he appeared to be sitting in…Draco angled his head, but the image didn’t change as it slowly faded.

The baby was sitting in a darkened cupboard.

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Draco collapsed into one of the winged armchairs in their sitting room, his face in his hands and his shoulders rounded with exhaustion. Bernard warned him in advance that Harry would be completely drained by today’s session. He hadn’t told Draco he would be, as well.

Draco pressed his fingers hard into his eyes, but he doubted it would help. He doubted there was anything he could do to scourge the pathetic picture of that Potter-faced mini-person from his mind, wide green eyes staring at the closed door of a dusty, dim cupboard, an overturned bowl of Brussels sprouts next to a chubby knee and tears streaking his dirty little face. Hearing Harry answer Bernard’s questions in a startlingly childlike voice had shaken Draco deeply. Image after image had filled the Pensieve, instance after instance of what could only be considered child abuse, from the shell shocked infant to an older Harry just before Hogwarts. And all Draco could think was, why hadn’t Harry _told_ him? He’d shared so many of his own memories from the war, things he’d never told another living soul. Yet, this thing, this – fundamental thing about his childhood, and Harry never uttered a word. Why? Even after the five years they’d lived together… It made Draco feel hallow.

The Floo whooshed and Draco lifted his head. Floating in the flames was Hermione’s concerned face.

“Draco. How did it go?”

Draco straightened with an effort. “Well, I think. Bernard seemed to think so, at any rate.”

She studied him for a long moment. “May I come through?”

“Should you, as pregnant as you are?” 

She gave him an irritated look and he held up his hands. He could hear Ron arguing against it in the background but moments later she was standing on the hearth, brushing at her boxy dark cardigan and black skirt, pushing her full hair back from her face. 

“Is he sleeping?” Draco nodded, and she took a step towards the door before pausing. “Can I…?

“Could I stop you?”

She arched her brow at him, and Draco sighed, gesturing towards the door. She walked as briskly as someone very pregnant could toward the hall, the heels of her sensible pumps tapping on their hardwood floors, barely a trace of a waddle. Draco stood, knees popping and achy, and followed her. By the time he reached the bedroom door, Hermione was lowering herself carefully to the edge of the bed, staring down into Harry’s sleeping face. The soft light Draco had left burning in their ensuite cast a square of dim light across the side of Harry’s face and his shoulder, and even from the doorway Draco could see the dark circles under his eyes. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, watching as Hermione reached out and brushed the thick, messy hair back from Harry’s face with aching tenderness. He needed a haircut, for all the good it would do, but they’d had other things to worry about of late. Hermione’s fingers lingered in the strands, and the expression on her face was so full of love it made Draco’s throat hurt. He couldn’t help but think of that sad, lonely baby and he blinked against stinging in his eyes. 

“He’s so thin,” she said softly, touching one sharp cheekbone.

“Hopefully, we can work on that now.” 

She gave Harry one last, lingering look then pushed to her feet. She stopped next to Draco and studied his face.

“Wine?” He arched a brow at her, and she smacked his arm. “Not for me, you idiot, although my Healer said there’s no risk at this point. Still… for you.”

The tightness in the center of his chest began to ease at just the thought. “Excellent.”

They went to the kitchen together, and Draco dropped tiredly into a chair at their table while Hermione took a bottle of red from the wine rack he’d had installed when they moved in. She dug the wine opener from the silverware drawer and tossed it to Draco, who caught it deftly, and carried the bottle and glass over, setting them before him. She lowered herself tiredly into the chair across from him.

“There’s ginger ale,” he offered as he removed the cork from the wine bottle.

She shook her head. “I’m all right.” She leaned toward him, linking her fingers on a placemat. “So, talk to me.”

He felt his face tighten and his expression close even as he poured a healthy glass of wine and took more than what could be considered a polite sip. “About?”

“Don’t be an arse.” 

He looked up into her soft brown eyes, detesting the sympathetic expression on her face. When he looked away and took another drink instead of answering, she reached across the table and pinched his bicep. He winced.

“Ouch, you pushy harpy. That hurt.”

“So, answer me.”

“Did it ever occur to you that some things might not be any of your business?” He snapped, then regretted his words the moment the flushed cheeks and hurt expression settled over her pretty face. He rubbed his palm over his jaw. “I’m sorry, Hermione. That was beastly rude of me. It’s just been a very long day.”

Her eyes softened. “I understand,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine it was any easier for you than it was for Harry.” 

Draco grimaced. “I imagine it was a good deal worse for him. Fortunately, if the treatment worked, he won’t remember any of it.”

“You will, however.” She reached for his glass and took a small sip before handing it back. “Did Healer Bernard figure out the source of his food issues?”

Draco cupped his palms around his glass. “I’d be willing to bet you already know some of the background.”

She sighed. “I had an inkling, but didn’t want to make any sort of uneducated guesses. Harry needed to see a professional and sometimes…” She looked down at her clenched fingers. “I think he puts too much importance in what I say, and I knew enough to know – I didn’t know nearly enough.”

“You knew about his hideous family.”

She looked up at him, a wealth of emotion in her dark eyes. “Yes, I knew about them.”

Draco took another sip of his wine. “You had a good deal more pertinent information than I did, then.”

Her eyes softened on his. “Oh, Draco. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?”

She reached across the table, gripping his arm. “No. It doesn’t. I was there when he was eleven, and during school. I saw the Dursley’s when they picked him up from King’s Cross; the fact that they hated him was so obvious. I knew he came back from holidays and breaks terribly thin, and we knew they weren’t feeding him. Those are things you couldn’t have known about, Draco.”

He looked down and shook his head. “Hermione, I appreciate your assurances, but we’ve been together for seven years, living together for five. I had no idea about his childhood. He hasn’t told me a thing. I only knew what any wizard on the street knows; that he was raised by Muggle relatives.”

“And after today, you can’t think why he didn’t tell you?”

Draco shrugged, stung. “I think he didn’t believe I could be trusted with it.” He rubbed his forehead. “Honestly, I don’t even blame him. I’ve been so nasty about his family in the past. When I think of the things I said about _his_ parents, when my father turned out to be such a prize.” He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing back his fringe. “When I think of him going through all of that alone…” He huffed out a raw sigh. “Gods, Hermione.” He had to stop. The tears he was fighting were far too close to the surface.

“Draco, Harry didn’t keep the information about his family to himself because he doesn’t trust you.”

“No?” 

“No.”

“You knew about it. Ronald knows. I’d wager the whole fucking Weasley clan knows.” Draco didn’t realize how bitter he was until he said it. He drained his glass.

She shook her head, bronze curls brushing her shoulders. “You’re missing the point.”

Draco slammed his glass down on the table harder than he meant to and it wobbled dangerously. He caught it before it fell. “What exactly is the point, Hermione? Because watching his memories today, seeing what was done to him when he was a helpless infant by people who were supposed to be his _family_ …” He stopped talking. He was shaking, no doubt a delayed reaction to everything he’d seen.

She curled her fingers around his hand and gripped. 

“Oh, Gods.” He closed his eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why he never told me. Those monsters were his family, and he thought I would think less of him.”

Hermione nodded, tears shining along her lower eyelids. “Even though he knows I love him, and that the Weasley’s all love him, he doesn’t _feel_ lovable. And I think that little boy inside of him is afraid he’ll lose you if you know what they did to him.” 

The truth of it made Draco’s stomach clench. “He’s so. Fucking. Stupid,” he ground out. Hermione gave a startled giggle. 

“He’s worth the trouble though, isn’t he?”

Draco closed his eyes, sighing. “He is. He’s worth everything.”

She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. 

“Tell me what happened today.”

Haltingly at first, he told her. He told her about all of the memories Bernard extracted from Harry’s head, beginning when he was fifteen months old. Apparently “Dudders”, who Draco wanted to turn into a warthog, didn’t like Brussels sprouts but his mother made them anyway, for every fucking special occasion. For at least a week after any celebratory meal, like Christmas or birthdays, they were all that was left over. Therefore, they were all Harry was allowed to eat. When he was four or five, eating nothing but the little green vegetable gave him stomach cramps and diarrhea. Draco didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone in his life as much as he hated Petunia Dursley. Dudley was a bully and the fat uncle was a boor, but Petunia was evil, forcing a child to eat nothing but greens and then locking him in a cupboard away from the loo overnight. Draco wanted to kill her, slowly and painfully.

Bernard thought the seasonal weather changes and the approaching holidays were what triggered Harry’s negative food reaction. Christmas and Vernon and Dudley’s birthdays were all in December. He’d outgrown his stomach issues with sprouts, had even come to like them, but the Healer reasoned that such profoundly negative experiences left marks on Harry’s psyche that could only be countered with this aggressive treatment. Bernard didn’t have an explanation for what had provoked the nausea this year over all the preceding, but as Draco watched and listened all afternoon, he thought he might have an idea.

“Do you mind telling me?” Hermione asked hesitantly.

“It could be utter rubbish.”

“It could also be the answer.”

Draco gestured vaguely. “Sometime around the beginning of October we discussed…making this permanent.”

A little frown appeared between Hermione’s brows. “Making what perman…” She stopped at Draco’s direct, ironic look.

“You’re the smartest witch of your age, remember?”

Her hand came up to cover her mouth. “You mean – oh, Draco!”

“Yes. But we’ll only be able to take that step if the prat doesn’t starve himself first.”

“But Bernard thought this treatment would work, didn’t he?”

“He did. But its success or failure still remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

He recognized the steely, determined look that came into her eyes. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure it succeeds, won’t we?”

Draco laughed weakly, rubbing his slightly scruffy jaw. “Just like that, is it?”

She nodded resolutely. “Yes, just like that. Besides,” her expression ripened into something slightly evil, “I’d pay for the opportunity to watch Harry asking Ron to stand up with him while he marries a Malfoy.”

Draco sputtered out an amused laugh. “And you’re supposed to love the ginger berk.”

“Oh, I do. I love him very much. But he can be an utter idiot, and it never hurts to be able to tell him so.”

Gods, Draco thought as he descended into what had to be unmanly giggles, it felt good to laugh. He’d nearly forgotten.

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Hermione didn’t stay much longer, and once she’d gone Draco went into their extra bath to shower in hopes it wouldn’t disturb Harry. He even briefly considered sleeping in the guest room, but he didn’t want to be even a short distance down the hall from Harry. He wanted to feel his warmth beside him, and fall asleep to the soft, even sound of his breathing. As quietly as he could, he went to their bedroom wearing nothing but a towel around his hips. He opened his bureau and slipped on a pair of boxers, then slid carefully between the sheets behind his lover.

He heard Harry’s breath hitch, and felt the bed move as he shifted.

“Where have you been?” Harry asked groggily. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Draco whispered. “Hermione stopped in to check on you.”

Harry sighed. “She flooed, didn’t she?”

“Weasley tried to stop her, but you know how well that went over.”

Harry scooted toward Draco until his back was pressed against Draco’s chest. Draco slipped his arm around Harry’s waist. He hummed in contentment. “You smell good.”

Draco chuckled. “Good to know. How are you feeling?”

Harry was silent for several seconds. “Better,” he answered finally. “No nausea at all. Gods, do you think this might be going to work?”

“It’s going to work,” Draco said firmly, deciding to borrow some of Hermione’s resolve.

“I hope so. I miss food.” Harry shifted again, and his arse pressed into Draco’s groin. Draco grunted softly.

“Not fair,” he said, nuzzling his face into the back of Harry’s neck. “You can’t start something you won’t feel up to finishing.”

It had been weeks since they’d made love, and Draco had been reduced to taking care of himself each morning in the shower. He missed Harry, missed holding him, loving him. They had a very active sex life when Harry was feeling himself. But Harry hadn’t been interested in what felt like a very, very long time. 

Draco was startled when Harry took hold of his wrist and directed his hand down his stomach. He was even more surprised when he encountered a healthy erection in Harry’s pants.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

Harry huffed. “I know it’s been a while, Draco, but honestly.”

Draco laughed. “Prat.”

“Git.” Harry pressed his hips forward. ”Are you going to do something with that, or just hold it?”

Draco sputtered. “Pushy.”

“More like horny,” Harry retorted. Draco stroked him slowly up and down, curled his thumb over the flared head, and Harry moaned softly.

“That’s feels so good.” Harry’s voice hitched when Draco pressed his own erection against the cleft in his arse. He pressed back, then forward into Draco’s hand, his head falling against Draco’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Draco kissed Harry’s throat, his teeth lightly scoring the thick tendon along the side of his neck. “I was afraid you might…” He stopped, his hand slipping up and inside the waistband of Harry’s y-fronts. When his hard prick filled Draco’s hand, they both groaned.

“Why do you think I finally agreed to see Bernard?” Harry said breathlessly.

“Because you miss food.”

“I miss fucking more.”

“Good to know.” Draco shifted away just far enough to ease Harry onto his back. He pushed Harry’s pants down past his hips, then took cock into his hand again, leaning down to nibble at one pink nipple. Harry gasped and thrust into Draco’s fist. 

“Draco.” 

Draco warmed to the sound of his name on his lover’s lips. Harry’s hand curled around the back of Draco’s head, his fingers sifting into his still damp hair, and he pressed. Draco smiled and allowed himself to be urged down Harry’s body, licking a trail south, through the line of dark hair below Harry’s navel until his nose brushed the thatch of black curls at his groin. Harry’s cock grazed his cheek, leaving a damp trail across his skin. 

Draco was momentarily diverted by how sharp and prominent Harry’s hipbones were but he forced his thoughts away from the distressing thought. Harry hadn’t felt like having sex in weeks; he wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. He turned his head and let his tongue circle the head of Harry’s cock, sliding across his slit and taking a sip of his pre-come. Harry groaned, his nails sliding across Draco’s scalp. Draco took him fully into his mouth, delighting in the thick, heavy feel of Harry’s prick lying against his tongue. He sucked as he pressed his head toward Harry’s pubic bone, and Harry’s back arched.

“Fuck,” Harry gasped. “That feels amazing.”

Draco hummed around him, and Harry’s fingers tightened in his hair. Draco relaxed his throat and went lower still, taking all of Harry as deeply as he could, and Harry’s hips pressed up. 

“Christ,” he moaned. “I’m never going to last with you doing that.”

Draco drew slowly off, his tongue following the line of the heavy vein on the underside of his cock. “So, let go,” he murmured, nuzzling one of Harry’s hipbones. “Go ahead. Come in my throat.” He sucked the mushroom shaped head of Harry’s cock back into his mouth, but Harry grabbed the hair on the back of his head. 

“No.” He pulled, and Draco fought down his disappointment as he allowed Harry to pull him up until they were face to face. It had been quite a while since they’d had sex; he shouldn’t have expected too much from his lover. But when Harry looked into his eyes, his were level, wide, determined. “I want you to fuck me.”

Draco blinked. 

They pretty much shared everything. Their sex life was fairly balanced, both giving and receiving in equal measure. But Draco would be lying if he said Harry liked getting fucked as much as he liked fucking. He did it, mostly because he was so stubborn about things being equivalent between them, but where Draco loved getting fucked, Harry merely tolerated it because he loved Draco. For him to ask for it was unexpected. 

Draco lifted his hand, cupping Harry’s cheek as he looked into his eyes. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to that?”

“I’m not fragile, Draco.”

Draco couldn’t help arching a brow. Harry wasn’t ordinarily fragile, no. He was the most enthusiastic and energetic lover Draco had ever had. When they got going, there was nothing delicate about their love-making. But right now Harry was thin, thinner than Draco had ever seen him, and he didn’t have any desire to hurt him.

“Dammit, Draco.” Harry sank his fingers into Draco’s hair, anchoring his hand in the strands. “I want you. Are you going to make me beg?”

Draco let his lips curve in a slow smirk. “Now there’s a plan with merit.” 

Harry laughed. “You arsehole.”

“I believe,” Draco followed the curve of Harry’s hip around to his bum, his long fingers tracing the cleft, “we were discussing your arsehole.”

Harry’s laugh was shaky when Draco pressed between his checks and gently brushed over his puckered hole. 

Draco rolled away for a moment, opening his bedside table drawer. In the dim light from the ensuite he saw the gleam of the small bottle of lube he ordered, in bulk, from a discreet apothecary. It smelled of mint and eucalyptus, and the resulting tingle and subtle loosening properties were worth the obscene price. Draco removed the cork from the vial easily with long practice and poured a small amount into his hand. 

When he returned his slick fingers to Harry’s opening, Harry sighed and lifted his upper leg, hooking it over Draco’s hip. Draco circled the furled flesh with the pad of his index finger, his lips traveling down Harry’s neck, detouring to suck the lobe of Harry’s ear into his mouth. Harry’s ears were particularly sensitive, and he shuddered, his fingers digging into Draco’s shoulders. Draco followed the delicate furls of Harry’s ear, distracting him as he pressed his finger in and up, curling it and finding the round, spongey gland of his prostate. Harry’s prostate was extremely sensitive as well, and he made a choking sound as his back arched and the rings of muscle around Draco’s digit tightened.

They weren’t much interested in who topped or bottomed in their relationship. In the early days, when they were still figuring out what their dynamic actually was, Draco was moderately surprised by that, startled ‘Potter’ would ever let ‘Malfoy’ fuck him. It was a while before he realized that Harry hadn’t thought of him as ‘Malfoy’ since before the war ever ended, but he eventually caught up. Both of them were responsive, receptive bottoms and intuitive tops. When their partner needed rough and demanding, they got it. When they needed gentle and careful, they got that. Tonight, and perhaps more emphatically than he’d ever understood it, he realized that what his ‘save the world, kill the Dark Lord, big bad Auror’ partner needed more than anything was to be cherished, and valued, and loved.

“Shh,” Draco whispered against Harry’s ear, pulling his finger back so that it wasn’t pressed directly into his lover’s prostate, pushing his finger in and out slowly. He pressed Harry onto his back, withdrawing his finger to add more lube, easing back in with two fingers. “Gods, I’ve missed you.”

Harry pulled in a slow breath, making a notable effort to relax. “I’ve missed you, too. I’m just glad I finally feel like – “ He gasped when Draco brushed his prostate again, then eased away. “Tease.”

“Not teasing.” Draco slid his lips over Harry’s collarbone, licking the dip at the base of his throat. “We’ll get there. Just no need to rush.” He mouthed up a pinch of skin, sucking color onto it. “You don’t object to me taking time with my beautiful partner, do you?”

Harry snorted softly. “I’m not beautiful,” Harry scoffed. “You are, but I’ve never been. Especially not now. I’m too pale, and too thin. Who are you, and what have you done to Draco Malfoy?”

Draco nibbled with his straight white teeth. “You’re so fucking clueless sometimes.”

“Ah, now that sounds like the Draco I know and love.”

“And if that Draco hasn’t told you, often, that you’re a beautiful man then he’s been remiss. Because you are, you know. Even this.” He lifted his free hand and ran it through Harry’s messy hair. “I love every cowlick on your head.”

“Now I know you’ve lost the plot.” Harry laughed. “Liar.”

Draco leaned back, staring down into Harry’s wide eyes. “I say the things I do because you expect them, and you like them, you head case. The truth is that I have half a dozen gay friends who would be more than happy to tell you, daily, how gorgeous you are, and to take you off of my hands.” He smirked, wiggling his fingers. “As it were.”

Harry hummed in pleasure, then made a face. “No one needs to hear how gorgeous they are.”

“But it wouldn’t hurt occasionally. So just shut it and listen to me for once.” Harry eyed him warily, but closed his mouth. “You, Harry Potter, are in actuality one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. You have stunning skin, and your eyes are the most amazing shade of emerald green. I envy your lashes and your dimples, and you’re probably as fit as any man I’ve ever seen starkers.”

Harry eyed him, obviously mystified. “Where is this coming from?” 

Draco nibbled Harry’s square chin. “My heart, wanker. And your looks have almost nothing to do with what I love about you. The rest we can discuss sometime when I’m not about to fuck you, but understand I know how unbelievably lucky I am to have you.” Harry stared up at him, a slight frown between his brows. “Repeat after me, ‘yes, Draco. Thank you, Draco.’ ”

Harry chuckled. “I’m not fool enough to repeat that.”

“Bollocks. Clearly I’m not making enough of an effort.” Draco ran his tongue gently along the seam of Harry’s lips. “I shall have to try harder.”

Harry giggled, an incongruous sound. He curled his hand around Draco’s prick. “Something is plenty hard.”

“Oh, dear Lord. A pun penalty,” Draco teased. 

“You like my puns.”

“You’re even more deluded than I imagined. Let’s stop talking.” Draco scissored his fingers gently, then pressed in further, once again stroking Harry’s gland. “How about this instead.”

Harry drew in a long breath, nodding. “Yes, that.”

Draco fingered Harry for several long minutes, until both their cocks were wet at the tip and Harry’s was leaving a shallow pool of pre-come in the indent of his navel. He was moaning and arching in arousal, his hands twisted in the duvet. He seemed to scarcely notice when Draco lifted one of Harry’s legs behind his knee, resting the bend over his shoulder. He withdrew his fingers, taking more lube onto his hand to smooth over his erection, then placed the head at Harry’s opening and eased in, one smooth slow glide.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry wheezed.

“We’re getting there. Don’t rush me.” Draco’s own voice was breathless. It had been long enough since they’d done this that even with his exhaustive preparation Harry was still tight, and the hot cling of his body pulled at Draco’s prick. He was balls pulled up against his taint in far too swift a warning. He went still inside of Harry, slipping one arm under his shoulders and the other under his hips, holding him caught flush against his body and unable to move as Draco kissed him with slow thoroughness. It took a few minutes for Harry to come out of his own head enough to be able to return his kisses. Draco luxuriated in the feel of Harry’s tongue on his, the way he sucked Draco’s tongue against the roof of his mouth and held him there. Draco didn’t begin to thrust inside of him until he couldn’t bear not to for a moment longer. 

He wanted to go slow, to make love to his partner and not just fuck him, but Harry had missed this as much as Draco had and wrapped his free leg around Draco’s waist, changing the angle that Draco’s cock pressed inside of him. Harry cried out, his head going back, his fingers digging into Draco’s arse. 

“Close,” Harry gasped. “Close, Draco.”

“Come for me,” Draco responded against Harry’s face, pressing their cheeks together. “Come on, beautiful. Come for me.”

“I… oh, Christ, Draco, I…” Harry mewled out a warning and jerked in Draco’s arms, and Draco felt the sudden, smooth warmness between their stomachs. Harry’s arse was so tight around him he almost pushed Draco out. 

Draco wasn’t going to allow that. He gripped Harry and pumped into him, allowing himself to lose control and finesse, his rhythm raw, ragged and hard. With just a few more thrusts he was coming, his forehead pushing into Harry’s throat and his gasps loud. He clenched his eyes shut, his heart pounding and his gasps uneven.

It took several minutes for them to drift slowly back down. Finally, Harry’s hand slid in the sweat covering Draco’s spine from the base of his neck to his arse. 

“My God,” Harry whispered against Draco’s shoulder, where his face had ended up pressed, “that was fucking brilliant.”

Draco smiled weakly. “I prefer to think of it as brilliant fucking.”

Harry chuckled, still sounding winded. “Of course you do.”

They settled against one another, Draco withdrawing carefully, Harry hissing regardless. Draco rolled them to their sides, his hand gliding through Harry’s hair then down his side tenderly. 

“After so long, tell me I didn’t hurt you,” Draco said. Harry looped his arm bonelessly around Draco’s shoulders.

“You hurt me just enough,” he responded, and Draco pressed his lips to Harry’s cheek. 

“I love you.”

Harry skimmed his fingers down Draco’s chest. “You must, to put up with me for so long.”

“Oh, yes.” Draco shook his head even as he pressed Harry’s palm flat against his skin. “You’re such a hardship.”

“It can’t have been much of a picnic for you lately.”

“And yet, the last hour was well worth putting up with most anything, including the indignity of picnics. I’ve simply never understood the appeal of eating outdoors on a blanket with flying and crawling things when a perfectly good dining room is available.”

Harry drew back enough to peer into Draco’s face. “Stop trying to change the subject. I know it’s been bloody irritating.”

Draco leaned up on his elbow. “So we’re going to do this now, are we?” He arched a brow. “All right, to be honest it’s been something of trial. To you,” he pressed his index finger against Harry’s sternum, “a good deal more than to me, I’d wager. And yet, did you notice?” Harry frowned slightly. “We just fucked quite enthusiastically, and no one felt remotely like vomiting.” 

Harry looked startled. “I – no one did, did they?” Delight began to shine in his green eyes. 

“Well, I certainly didn’t. And I’m guessing by your response that you didn’t, either.” Draco kissed him, then leaned back with a slow smile.

“Oh, Gods, Draco. Do you think this might actually be over?” Harry looked so hopeful Draco thought he could wait until later to remind him that Bernard had cautioned it might take more than one treatment. 

“I think it’s well on the way, love,” he said instead. “So, how would you like to celebrate? Round two in the shower?”

Harry’s expression was sheepish. “Would you think I was ridiculous if I opted for ice cream, instead?”

Draco shook his head, delighted. “In this instance, I think ice cream is the perfect way to go. Then round two later.” He wiggled his brows. “Race you to the shower?”

Harry was out of the bed and halfway across their suite before Draco could even react. “You wanker!” he cried, startled that Harry felt so lively before he gave chase. They stumbled over each other when they arrived in the doorway, laughing like children.

If Draco hadn’t been so relieved, he might have wept, instead.

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

“Oi, you’re late.”

Harry laughed as he and Draco stepped out of the floo into the Weasley’s warm, fragrant sitting room. 

“We’re always late; you know that.” Draco drawled. “It takes me this long to get both of us dressed.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Harry laughed. “I can dress without your assistance.”

Draco arched a brow. “The day you prove that, I’ll give you full credit.”

“Bloody ponce,” Ron growled. 

“Bloody ponce,” Rosie repeated, in a perfect imitation of her father.

“Oh, very nice,” Draco said, giving him an arch look. “Was it your plan to teach her to call her Godfather by a gay slur?”

“That was aimed at _you_ ,” Ron retorted. “We all know you weren’t late because Harry spent half an hour admiring himself in the mirror.” Ron gave Harry a horrified look. “You weren’t, were you?”

Harry sputtered out a laugh. 

“You look very nice.” Hermione stepped between them, handing a laughing Harry his new Godchild, six week old Hugo. She sent Ron a stern look. “And you need to be careful. She has four gay uncles between Charlie, Marius, Harry and Draco, and I won’t raise a little bigot.”

“I didn’t mean anything, Hermione,” Ron said, shamefaced.

“I don’t care. You can’t resort to name calling just because your dinner is slightly delayed.”

“What she said,” Draco added smoothly, smiling at Ronald. Ron exhaled heavily, his freckled face flushed. Hermione gave Draco a quelling look that did nothing to quell him.

“Mum!” Ron shouted. “They’re here!!”

“They’re here, Grammie!!” Rosie bellowed, racing through into the kitchen. “They’re here, they’re here!!”

“Such a delicate child,” Hermione said dryly, going to Harry and slipping her arm around his waist. She kissed his cheek. “You do look wonderful,” she told Harry, who blushed delightfully.

And she was right; he did. He was wearing a green jumper that molded to his muscular upper body and brought out his vivid eyes, and the snug jeans Draco had finally forced him to buy showed his sturdy thighs to great advantage. He’d regained all the weight he’d lost, and he looked fit and happy.

It had actually taken five treatments before Bernard had declared Harry free of the phobias surrounding certain foods. Now a small bottle labeled ‘Subject 34, treatment A1d0’ sat in the cabinet behind his desk with dozens of others just like it. Only Harry, Draco and the Healer knew it contained those toxic memories from his childhood. 

It wasn’t as if the memories were gone, Harry told Draco once the treatment was well under way. It was just that they were muted, and no longer had the power to hurt him. Those were the only words that had kept Draco from searching out Petunia Dursley and hexing her into a steaming pile of hippogriff dung. He never told Harry that was his intention, but he’d had very active fantasies about it. But Bernard had been successful, and all Draco cared about was that his happy, healthy green-eyed lover was back where he belonged. And Draco wasn’t in Azkaban; he had to count that as a plus.

Molly Weasley stepped out from the kitchen, her hair a fly-away, gray streaked gray mass around her flushed face. “Oh, boys, you’re here. Wonderful. Everything’s ready.”

“Thank Merlin,” Ron muttered, heading for the kitchen.

“When he’s sixty he’s going to be big as a house,” Hermione sighed, following. 

“Nah,” Harry said, rubbing noses with the baby in delight. “Look at Arthur; they’ve all got his metabolism.”

“Unless Ginevra got Molly’s,” Draco told her under his breath, and Hermione giggled. Draco was mostly over the fact Harry had dated her first; mostly.

The burrow felt relatively empty on this last Sunday before Christmas. It was only Ron, Hermione and their children, and Harry and Draco along with Arthur and Molly. Next weekend the hoards would descend, but this week was fairly quiet. Draco followed Harry and little Hugo, his arm slipping around Hermione’s waist. 

“He looks good holding a baby, doesn’t he?” she said, an impish twinkle in her eyes. 

“Be silent, you shrew.” Draco gave her a stern look. “Let’s not put any ideas into his head.”

“It’s only a matter of time, you know.” She grinned up at Draco. “Especially with the wedding planned for March. And I think you would make a lovely father, too.”

Draco rolled his eyes, secretly pleased. “Well, if Weaslbee can do it…”

“Oh, hush, you.” Hermione bumped him with her shoulder, but the smile remained in her eyes.

They took their places around Molly and Arthur’s scarred, much loved kitchen table, Harry refusing to release Hugo back to his mother. 

“You eat, Hermione,” he said with a smile. “How often do you get an uninterrupted meal? I’ve got him.”

“How about I make a dish for you, love,” Draco leaned close and offered, so overcome with delight at how wonderful Harry looked that he forgot his usual reserve about PDA’s. He pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. “What would you like?”

Harry looked around at the dishes on the table, his eyes settling on one, his smile growing. “How about I start with some sprouts?” His eyes were sparkling with poorly concealed delight.

Draco chuckled. “I think that sounds brilliant.” 

He dished up Harry’s food while his fiance cooed to the baby and Ron and Hermione bickered in the background. Rosie bounced in her high chair, mashed potatoes already in her hair. In his mind Draco could see these people as guests at a wedding, Weasley forced into dress robes, hopefully some that didn’t look like the upholstery on his Great Aunt Tessie’s couch. He could envision Harry staring adoringly into another tiny face while the noise and warmth swirled around them. 

Contentment filled his heart as he placed a plate with roast, potatoes and prominently featured, _sprouts_ at his fiance’s elbow, accepting the soft kiss Harry offered in return. 

Draco smiled. In that moment, he thought anything was possible.

__

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/153410.html).


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